Then I heard a sound that was really music to my ears: car tires spinning. I couldn’t see where it was coming from, but somebody was having a hard time. The tires were screaming. I jumped about ten feet in the air. “Ice!” Emilie looked at me like I was crazy. I grabbed her shoulders. “Ice, Emilie! Ice! Ice! The lake’s freezing over! There’s gonna be ice! There’s gonna be hockey!”
Emilie brought her hands from under the blankets and held my face in them. “Let’s go.”
“The lake? Now?”
“Now.”
I didn’t need any more arm twisting; Homestead Lake was only about five blocks away. When we got there, the floodlights were off, so I knew the ice wasn’t ready yet. When the ice is thick enough, the lights stay on till nine each night.
The lake isn’t far from the sidewalk. We could see it dimly in the street light. I left Emilie and went to check things out. I lowered my foot slowly over the edge—it stopped. Ice all right. I put on a little pressure. The ice held. A little more pressure. I heard cracking. I went back to Emilie. “Yep, it’s ice. Couple more days now.”
I told her what it would be like: all the kids—choosing sides—wild, screaming games—the nets—the practice backboard—the fence at the edge of the lighted area, so nobody will go into the middle of the lake, where the ice is thin. Emilie was looking at me, smiling. “You really love that ice, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I chuckled, “guess so.”
Then, just looking at her, I knew it was the right time to do something that had been on my mind for weeks. I pulled out a little white card and gave it to her. I was never so nervous in my life. “Can you read it in this light?” I asked her.
She held it out, kept moving it around to get the best light. “I think so. I’ll give it a try.”
It was a regular business-type card, like my father has, with real printing.
This card identifies the bearer
as an
HONORARY GRANDMOTHER
of
Megin P. Tofer
And entitles said Bearer to All
Privileges and Benefits pertaining.
She was taking a year to read it. The longer I stood there, the more I knew I had blown it. When I couldn’t stand the silence any longer, I started explaining. I told her I’d never had a real grandmother, because they both died before I was born. I told her that my mother had helped me with the wording on the card, and that a shop teacher in school had done the printing for me. I told her she didn’t have to take it seriously.
She said something, but I couldn’t make it out. I knelt down. Now I could see her face. Her lip was quivering. Her eyes rose to mine, fell back to the card. “I can’t be a grandmother. I don’t know how.”
I laughed. “You don’t have to know how. You just be one.”
“I don’t cook good.”
“So what?”
“Grandmothers are great cooks. Everybody loves to eat there. All my soft-boiled eggs come out too hard.”
“I’ll give you cooking lessons. Soon as I get them in school.”
“I hate rocking chairs.”
“Emilie.”
“I can’t knit.”
“Emilie.”
“What good’s a grandmother who can’t knit?”
“Emilie! Are you gonna be my grandmother or not?”
She started shaking all over. I tucked the blankets in more snuggly. “Cold?”
She sniffed, “Never been warmer.” Tears came. They didn’t roll straight down, but followed the wrinkles on her face. She reached out to me, and we held each other tight and she kept sobbing “I can’t knit… I can’t knit” over and over in the snow flurries under the streetlight by Homestead Lake.
Greg
Dear Greg,
Thank you for the bracelet. It was so nice of you to send it to me… and just in time for Christmas! Well, thank you again.
Sincerely,
Jennifer Wade
P.S.
Merry Christmas!
A THOUSAND. That’s how many times I read the letter over and over in my room. I’ve never seen such beautiful handwriting. And the way she said things, it was like she was right next to me, whispering in my ear.
I just wanted to stay there the whole day and read it ten thousand times, but Christmas was only two days away and I had to go shopping at the mall with Poff and Valducci. With the letter in my pocket, I floated out of the house. I left my mother and Toddie and Megamouth behind, fighting in the living room over how to decorate the tree. They could hang bananas on it for all I cared.
At the mall I got a portable car vacuum cleaner for my father, a bracelet for my mother, and a Road Runner coloring book for Toddie.
Valducci has a gigantic family, so he got a whole lot of little things, mostly packs of Life Savers. Then he really got stumped. He wanted to get something for that Zoe girl, the seventh-grade flash he has the hots for. “Get her a bracelet,” I told him. “With a Z on it.”
“Nah,” he said. “Gotta be different. Them California girls seen it all. This has gotta be one of a kind.”
Poff kept drifting off by himself to get his gifts. Poff lives with his mother, just her and him. No matter what store we were in, he headed for the ladies’ department.
We stopped by appliances at Sears. My father was busy telling somebody what a great Christmas present a washing machine would make. He was wearing his long, red Santa cap. The way he’s so jolly, it’s a wonder he doesn’t wear it all year around.
Walking through the mall, I couldn’t get my mind off the letter. The words kept floating through my head; the Salvation Army bells put them to music.
We were on the second-floor balcony and I was looking down when I got a surprise: Sara. She was walking into a bookstore on the lower level—with Leo Borlock, our own ninth-grade shrink. She was wearing a coat I’d never seen before, with a long powder blue scarf. I felt bad at first, but then I started to feel better. I was glad she’d decided to talk it out with Leo instead of moping at home by herself. If anybody could help her, Leo could. Broken hearts are his specialty. I also felt relief for my own sake. Because now the whole problem of what to do about Sara wasn’t just mine; it was Leo’s too. I felt lighter. Now I could enjoy Christmas all the way.
By the time Poff was done shopping, he had two carry bags full. All for his mother, I guess. So we were ready to leave—but no Valducci. We finally found him with Santa Claus. Waiting in line with these kiddies who came up to his waist, Valducci looked like a giant. Of course, his size was the only way you could tell the difference. He was fooling around and kicking and swiping candy canes just like the others. He was attracting as much attention as Santa Claus.
When Valducci’s turn came, he climbed the steps and sat on Santa’s lap. He kept grinning and whispering in Santa’s ear and moving his hands in the shape of a girl’s figure. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure exactly who he wanted for Christmas. He got off Santa’s lap, stopped for a minute at the photographer’s table, and came cruising up to us, all proud. He held out the picture—the large size, color, him on Santa’s knee, grinning at the camera. “This is it,” he said. “The present I was looking for. One-of-a-kind.”
When the bus let us off, we walked together for a block. We decided to meet next morning at Homestead Lake with skates and sticks. The ice was ready. Then we separated.
The world never seemed so beautiful. It was a gingerbread town, the snow like white icing spread across the lawns, drooping from the roofs, heaped along the driveways. Jellybean lights framed doorways and swirled around front-yard shrubs. Trees stood black like licorice sticks against a raspberry sherbet sky.
I opened our door to the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches and the sparkling lights of our Christmas tree.
I ate dinner, but I didn’t taste it. I watched a little TV, but I didn’t see it. Then I made the call, the call I had been thinking about all day, heading for all my life.
She answered. “Hello?”
“Hello? Jennifer?”
“Yes?”
“This is Greg, uh, Tofer. ’Member me?”
“Oh yeah. Hi.”
“Hi. Just thought I’d, uh, give you a little call. Wanted to, uh, let you know I got your letter.”
“Oh yeah, the thank-you note.”
“Yeah. I, uh, it was a, uh, very nice note. Wanted to thank you for it.”
“Well, you’re welcome.”
“Thanks.”
“And thank you.”
“Uh, what for?”
“The bracelet.”
“Oh yeah. Guess I got a little mixed up there.” I laughed. “Say, Jennifer, how’s, uh, your shopping going so far?”
“Oh, okay, I guess. So far so good.”
“Only one day left, y’know.”
“Yeah, I know. Almost here.”
“Sure is. When is it? Day after tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
“Christmas. Wow.” She didn’t answer. It was so quiet I thought maybe the line had gone dead. Then I heard her clear her throat. I spoke up. “Yeah, Christmas—oh say, Jen, listen, speaking of Christmas, you guys have, uh, you’re on vacation over there, aren’t you? Till after New Year’s, I mean?”
“Far as I know.”
“Yeah. Thought so. Us too.” More silence. No throat clearing this time. “Yeah, well, listen, Jen. I was wondering, uh, d’you think you might like to go out someplace some night? Well, ’course, some day would be okay too.” I laughed. “I don’t know, movies or something?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m kind of pretty tied up around the holidays. We have to go visiting a lot of relatives, you know.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Me too. Christmas. Relatives. Yeah, know what you mean. Sort of, uh, be busy just about every day, I guess, huh?”
“Probably.”
“Lotta relatives.”
“Tons.”
I laughed. “Yeah, me too.” Silence. “Well, listen, just wanted to call and thank you for the letter. So—uh—thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay. Bye now.”
“Bye.”
“Oh—Merry Christmas, Jen.”
“Same to you.”
“Seeya.”
“Bye.”
When I put the receiver down, my heart felt the weight of it.
What happened? What was going on? Until now, everything seemed to be going forward: her words at Sara’s party, sending her the bracelet, her letter. Each one a step forward. Now the phone call. Was it a step forward? Backward? Anywhere? Okay, I didn’t get a date with her. Right. But did she say she didn’t want to go out with me? No. She said she couldn’t. “Pretty tied up,” she had said. Not wouldn’t, couldn’t. Relatives. Visiting. Christmas. Understandable. I took out the letter. There: “… so nice of you to send it to me.” So nice… so nice. And the “Merry Christmas!” With an exclamation point. Not the words, not the letter of a girl who would never want to go out with me. So why was I feeling so… so what? How was I feeling? Good? No, not really, to be honest. Bad? Well, a little closer maybe, but that couldn’t really be it either. I mean, what was there, exactly, to feel bad about? And damn if I was going to feel bad without a pretty good reason.
Late that night I made up an excuse to leave the house. I snuck back through the basement door for my stuff and headed for the Homestead. The floodlights were out. By the time I had my skates laced on, my eyes were soaking up as much light as they could from the street. The practice backboard was a rectangular blot in the night. I slapped the puck with my stick. I couldn’t see the puck sail into the darkness; I could only hear it knock against the backboard. This is what I do when things go wrong. (In the winter, anyway. I pull out hairs in the summer months.) I keep firing the puck into the board, letting it rebound to me. I stay directly in front of the backboard, and pretty close to it. That’s to make sure I hit it. Because if I ever miss—well, the night is black and so’s the puck—I know I’ll never find it.
Megin
WHEN I WOKE UP, my cheek was resting on wood: my hockey stick. It’s the thing I love most in the world, other than a few people. I got it one night when my father took Grosso and me to a Flyers game in the city. They were playing Wayne Gretzky and the Edmonton Oilers. Between periods the announcer called out a number; my father looked at my ticket stub and got all excited: “You won! You won!” What I won was a chance to go to the Oilers’ locker room after the game and meet Wayne Gretzky. And as if that weren’t enough, Wayne Gretzky gave me a hockey stick—a stick he himself had played with—and right then, he signed the handle: “To Megin, from your friend Wayne Gretzky.” Grosso wanted to kill me, because he’d missed it by one number.
I kissed my stick and got up. It was the day after Christmas, first big day at Homestead Lake. A little while later, Sue Ann and I were standing on the shore. Most of the hockey players were already there, getting the kinks out. The nonhockey kids were at the other end, skating, falling, showing off their new clothes. Other kids were camped around the edges, scooping out snow—we call the scooped-out spots “nests”—laying down blankets, piling sticks for little fires. Some even had Sterno cans burning. I just let the whole scene soak in. I had my donuts, my cheese sandwiches, my thermos jug of hot chocolate, my hockey stuff, including my new Wayne Gretzky gloves.
I handed Sue Ann my food bag. “Here, make our place,” I told her, and I pushed off onto the ice. Sue Ann loves making a nest more than skating. She always makes a big one and invites a lot of other girls over.
Valducci saw me coming. “Hey-hey—,” he goes, “here she comes! Gretzky’s little brother! Gretzky’s little mother! Gretzky’s lit—” That’s as far as he got. My stick behind his skate, one quick yank, and Valducci’s butt was on the ice.
After a while we chose up sides. As usual, Skelley and Broadhurst did the choosing. They’re the two best players. As far back as I can remember, two things have always happened: (1) I get picked before El Grosso; (2) El Grosso gets mad. Sure enough, it happened again. I was Skelley’s third pick. Grosso was Broadhurst’s fifth. Oh yeah, another thing: we never get picked on the same team. They know better.
As usual, I called Sue Ann over to drop the puck for the opening face-off. As usual, she was terrified. She tiptoed on her skates across the ice to Skelley and Broadhurst, a mouse between two alley cats. She stayed as far away from them as she could, stretching her arms and body as far as possible to dangle the puck between them. She held it like something hot or dead, between the tips of two fingers. Then she dropped it and went screaming off the ice, holding her ears between her mittens.
At last: the first game of the season. Hah! The first game of the season was about two seconds old when I got slammed into and wound up butt-down on the ice. I looked up in time to see Grosso heading away. Didn’t bother me. The day was long. Pretty soon I got my chance to retaliate. We were whipping the puck around Broadhurst’s goal, looking for an opening. Skelley cruised behind the net, spotted me in front, fed me a pass, but Grosso got in the way and blocked it. That’s when I made my move. Before Grosso could go anywhere with the puck, I body-checked him from behind. He went sprawling belly-down into the goal—a human puck! Meanwhile, the real puck was left sitting there at my feet. I wound up and fired a blur past Grosso’s ear, under the goalie’s armpit, smack into the upper right corner of the net. Score!
The whole Skelley team mobbed me. It was like what happens to Gretzky all the time. Then Grosso came charging, flailing his stick. “She fouled me! She hit me from behind!”
“You fouled me before,” I shot back. “I just got you back, that’s all.”
Grosso stood there fuming, glaring. “Okay, girl, you asked for it.”
“Anytime, chump.”
Valducci started pounding the ice with his stick. “Yeah yeah! Let’s have some action, baby! Ak-shun! Woogah!”
Sorry, Valducci, but your friend Grosso is too slow and clumsy to give me any action. Grosso can get fr
om one point to another okay, and every once in a while (maybe twice a year) he scores a fluky goal, but when it comes to skating and to stick handling, he’s not in my class. And he knows it. That’s why he’s always trying to body-check me to the other side of town. But as long as I keep one eye peeled for him, I’m okay. I see him charging, I step aside, and he goes crashing into the goal or the fence or somebody.
Hockeywise, the day just got better and better. We won our first game, 5 to 2. (First team with 5 points wins.) Then they picked sides again. This time I was Skelley’s second pick. Broadhurst never picks me. He says he just doesn’t want a girl on his team, but I think he’s afraid of embarrassing Grosso by picking me over him. By midafternoon I was Skelley’s number-one pick.
We won all our games except one. I was hot. I must have scored twenty goals that day. I even scored a hat trick—three goals in one game. My first hat trick ever! And the third goal happened to win that particular game, 5 to 4. My team went crazy. I felt myself being lifted; somebody was hauling me around the ice on his shoulders. It was John Poff. He’s not much of a skater, but he sure gives a good ride around the ice. And a safe one—nobody body-checks Poff.
After every couple games I’d plop down in our nest and do a little eating. Sometimes I’d stick a donut in my pocket so I could grab some quick energy during the action. By the time the sun was setting and the floodlights came on, I was down to my last cheese sandwich and blueberry-filled. Nobody was in our nest, so I was munching away on the sandwich by myself when I heard some girls calling my name. They were waving, a bunch of them. I headed over, and the closer I got, the less I could believe my eyes. It was the biggest, most glorious nest I ever saw: five blankets (the biggest I ever saw before had two), a layback beach chair, a sofa, and Sterno cans warming two copper pots. In front of all this was a green, fake-grass mat saying WELCOME and, stuck in the snow, a five-foot-high plastic palm tree.
About twenty kids—nearly all the nonhockey seventh-graders—were there, most of them crowded around the Sterno fires. And who was lounging on the sofa? Who else—Zoe, all decked out in red and silver. She wore red earmuffs, with silver hoop earrings dangling from them. She was lying on her side, dipping little diamond-shaped crackers into a bowl of green stuff.